


the city lights have left me empty

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x22 Coda, Anxious Sam Winchester, Episode: s12e22 Who We Are, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Protective Dean Winchester, post-s12e22, sam winchester has a lot of guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: And now he was hiding, quivering under a boiling shower because he was too weak to go out there and clean up the mess he made, too terrified to go talk to his brother or console his Mom, or do something right, for once-Three knocks. Frantic. Quick.'Sammy?'Shit.(or: after s12e22, sam has a lot of misplaced guilt and nowhere to put it. title from 'the great divide' by the mowgli's.)





	the city lights have left me empty

**Author's Note:**

> your friendly neighborhood angst-master has returned from the war!!  
> not really. i have state exams in a week and an important fic to be writing. but i finished s12 today and i have a lot of sad feelings, and a lot of study to do, so here i am.  
> (do you know how hard it was to NOT write sam having panic attacks at the multiple mentions of lucifer???? this is after hess and the photos, but that bit on the phone in e23???? how SHAKY sam was??? it was so plausible. @jared: ur an awesome actor, thank you from all of us anxious peeps out there.)  
> btw in the summer i will have a lot of time and nothing to do with it, so if any of you have fic ideas (i have a couple in the backburner!) pls shout at me in the comments to write them. i will love them and i will love u.
> 
> enjoy!!

He got home. He wasn’t dead. Mary wasn’t brainwashed, and Dean was bloody and battered, sure, but he was  _ still breathing.  _ Sam was able to pull Mary’s frame against his, tiny in comparison, and having two of the people he loved most feeling the same relief as him for different reasons entirely should have been a comfort.

So he tried to convince himself that there was no logical reason to be panicking at all hours of the evening, sitting on the shower floor without even turning the water on.

And his mind was running rampant, which he should’ve had control over. After everything, the one thing he should’ve been able to control was his own goddamn mind, his own thoughts-

_ Water.  _ Turn on the water. Water blocks out sound, so if he did start panicking then it’d fast and quick and simple and Dean wouldn’t think to intrude, Dean and Mary wouldn’t hear anything.

But then Sam couldn’t hear anything past the water in his ears, and then Lucifer would show up and kill him or trick him or the word ‘ _ yes’  _ would tumble out of his mouth like he never had permission to use it-

_ Lucifer.  _ Lucifer was free, and alive, and in the picture he was smiling like he had a plan. And now Crowley was dead and there was no gap between Sam and the devil. There was nobody to hold him, nowhere to lock him up, and he’s powerful when he’s angry and powerful when he’s annoyed, and he’s too powerful for Sam to do anything but scream. Sam didn’t want to see him, he didn’t want to think about Crowley dying, he didn’t want to think about Cas, he didn’t want to remember the feeling of fire crawling up his skin or the almost rusting texture of the cage when he rubbed his palms against the bars-

Water. Sam turned on the water. When he turned on the water it burned his skin but in a cleansing way, and it didn’t smell like blood anymore. 

Dean was the one bleeding, though; everything just smelled like blood anyway and Sam felt selfish, he should’ve patched up Dean, all he had to do was kill a couple people and look at a couple fucking pictures.

He was shaking. Pulling his fists from the hollows of his eyes was an effort and when he unclenched them it hurt; his nails had pierced skin, and it was bleeding, but nothing to worry about. He washed it away easily, and welcomed the pain like he used to back when everything was real and fake at the same time.

And he thought back to how easy it would’ve been for none of this to happen. Even if Sam hadn’t been working with the British—and his mouth went dry when he thought of the pain Mary went through, the torture, forgetting everything she’d come to know to be left with a darkness so terrifying all she could do was hide in the corner of her psyche—so much would’ve been prevented. 

And sure, letting out the Darkness technically wasn’t his fault, but it also technically  _ was.  _ He got Rowena’s help with the Book of The Damned, and then Cas got put under a spell. If Sam had been strong enough, he would’ve been able to finish the trials, and then he wouldn’t have gotten possessed by an angel, and nothing would have happened with Abaddon in the first place. If he was strong enough, he would’ve been able to shut the gates of Hell. 

He didn’t even look for Dean after the leviathans, when he was sent off to Purgatory and Sam decided a domestic life was what he really rooted for.

Sam was going through it all, all the times it was his fault, how this was no different, and now Lucifer was out and Cas was gone and Crowley was dead and American hunters died, and it was all because of him. And now he was hiding, quivering under a boiling shower because he was too  _ weak  _ to go out there and clean up the mess he made, too terrified to go talk to his brother or console his Mom, or do something  _ right,  _ for  _ once- _

Three knocks. Frantic. Quick.

It was the first thing Sam heard other than running water, and he didn’t even know how long he’d been sitting here. 

‘Sam?’ Dean’s voice was muffled by the bedroom door—not the bathroom, it was too far away for that. Sam must’ve locked it. He didn’t remember. At least then the devil couldn’t get inside. ‘Sammy? You okay in there?’

He figured answering the door would be a good idea. Keeping Dean from worrying about him in the slightest was top priority, because there were much bigger issues that didn’t involve Sam Winchester’s cruddy sense of self-preservation and self-care.

He barely had time to turn off the water before throwing on his clothes, a t-shirt and sweatpants—he was still sopping wet, mind you—and checking if he was somewhat presentable in the mirror. No tear tracks, no flushed cheeks; just wet hair and a sort of panicked breathing he could get under control if he tried.

When he quietly opened his bedroom door, Dean was changed into what could’ve been deemed his softer clothes (not that he allowed anybody to know he owned them). Every cut had been cleaned and patched up, and there was a visible layer of bandages on his knee.

Not that Sam had helped with that in any capacity. He had just tried to metaphorically drown himself in the shower for at least an hour.

Sam smiled—it probably looked more like a grimace—when he met Dean’s eyes. ‘Mhm?’ 

‘Hey.’ Dean looked him up and down with that judgmentally caring stare he has. He looked concerned. He had probably knocked a few more times before Sam had heard him.

Sam nodded. ‘Hi.’

‘You alright?’

And Sam immediately jumped back into the act, albeit his voice was too high and too shaky and he avoided looking anywhere but at the wall behind Dean’s head. His hands shook, so he rubbed them together. ‘Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. Just, uh, havin’ a shower. I can go help clean up, if you want. You should get some sleep, it’s been—’

‘Woah, what—’ Dean apparently ignored Sam’s derailed monologue in favour of taking Sam’s hands in his own, turning them over.

Although not at as fast a rate, blood still flowed from the crescent-shaped marks and trickled down the lines of Sam’s palms.

Shit. He couldn’t even wash blood off right.

‘Dean, it’s nothing.’ Against his better judgement, Sam tried to pull away.

But Dean persisted, gripped Sam’s wrists a little tighter. He used the side of his hand to brush away some blood from the source and felt Sam flinch at the contact. His voice was soft, but accusatory. ‘How’d this happen?’

‘I, uh, I-’  _ I just found out that the scariest man—demon?—alive is  _ actually  _ alive, and hunting down our best friend. I took to drastic, panicky measures. No biggie,  _ Sam wanted to say.

Instead, he just shrugged and let his wide eyes meet Dean’s caring ones. 

Dean held onto Sam’s wrist and led them both through the bunker, speaking quietly. ‘C’mon, let’s go patch you up.’

But it wouldn’t be like Sam to assume he was the main priority in any situation, so he persisted. ‘You’re the one that got beaten up by Ketch, I should be—’

‘Mom helped, don’t worry.’ And yes, Sam could see the stitches and the bandages, but he should’ve  _ been there.  _ He should’ve done something.

But Dean sat Sam down on the edge of his bed—Sam could hear Mom humming down the hall, and almost smiled—and reached around to pull out a first aid kit.

Sam only flinched a little when Dean applied the disinfectant. By the time Dean was wrapping clean, white bandages around the injuries, Sam almost felt appreciative for it.

Dean looked up at Sam, who had been studying Dean’s bruised knuckles for the past ten minutes. ‘You gotta stop feelin’ like you gotta help out all the time, man. There’s been four of us around, lately. If my hand’s hurt, we fix it. If your hand’s hurt, we fix it, make you chicken soup and tuck you into bed, because you never half-ass things and would rather become an amputee than ask for help. Got it?’

And Sam honestly laughed at that. ‘Got it.’

They were silent as Dean pinned the bandages in place. Once he let go of Sam’s hand, Dean looked up at his brother. ‘So…’

Sam nodded for no reason in particular. ‘So.’

‘Find out anythin’ from the Brits? Y’know, before they all said sayonara.’

And suddenly Sam had  _ so much to say,  _ but no voice to say it. When he tried to speak, he knew all that would come out would be the names of all the people he’d let down, gotten killed. He thought about Lucifer, and the cage, and watching the devil walk around in Cas’ body because Sam had been too weak to do anything but let others take his pain.

Dean didn’t see any of this through Sam’s bowed head and slumped shoulders. He sighed. ‘C’mon, man, we’re supposed to be doin’ that whole “tell each other everything” thing from now on. If you  _ did  _ find out anythin’, we need to know about it.’

‘Yeah, I know. I just, I—’ Sam’s hands were shaking again, and he knew Dean could see it. He tried to clench them but he couldn’t around the bandages, which made him feel too exposed. ‘It’s just—’

He gave up on words. He resorted to breathing out, slowly. 

Dean smiled, but it was more reassuring than anything. ‘That bad?’

Sam nodded and tried smiling in return. ‘That bad, y-yeah.’

(The smile didn’t work, but it’s the thought that counts.)

Dean adjusted himself on the bed, pushing himself into the middle of it, and kicking off his shoes at the side. ‘Okay, how about this: I’ll list off our current top priorities, and you can nod if it’s about ‘em, elaborate or whatever. Got it?’

‘Yeah, that works.’

Dean thought for a second. ‘Hmm….the British. Anythin’ those dead assholes had to say?’

Sam shook his head.

‘Mom?’

Another shake.

‘...Cas?’

Sam paused, and then slowly nodded. ‘It’s not—It’s not really  _ about  _ him. He’s just a part of it.’

Dean looked a little more concerned. ‘Kelly Kline?’

He nodded again, sure of himself.

‘..Lucifer?’

Sam bowed his head and slowly nodded, his breathing slow and steady. He clenched and unclenched his palms.

‘He’s, uh, he’s alive. Out of Hell.’

Dean didn’t shout, but he might as well have. He spoke with a mix of shock and anger and disappointment. ‘But we sent him back to the Cage! And if he was in Hell, wouldn’t Crowley-’

‘Crowley’s dead.’

Dean was silent.

Sam laughed, deprecating, shaking his head as if in disbelief. ‘Hess was there, she tried to, uh, convince me not to kill her.’

‘...You  _ did  _ kill her. Right?’

Sam nodded slowly, running a hand haphazardly through his hair. ‘Yeah. But she- she gave me this folder of pictures, and there was…there was one of  _ him  _ and he was smiling, and I just kind of…realized that I’m not  _ safe  _ from him anymore.’   

Sam paused, and gently punched the comforter.

‘And I didn’t even take the pictures with me. Of course-’

Dean shifted on the covers, holding a hand out in reassurance. ‘Hey, hey, don’t worry about some stupid pictures. They’d just keep you up at night. You know he’s back, right? I don’t need any more proof than that.’

Sam closed his eyes, breathed in. ‘Okay.’

Dean smiled, patting his shoulder. ‘And we’ll find him, you, Mom, and me, and we’ll kick his ass, once  _ you’re  _ ready. No sooner. Alright?’

‘Yeah. Thanks, Dean.’

And the panic he’d previously felt all night, although not completely gone, was definitely lessened. All he needed was a little bit more of this selfish comfort, the chance to hug Mary again (he thanked the stars every day that he was able to hug his Mom after decades without her in his life, and would take every opportunity to do so), and a good night’s sleep, and he’d be right as rain.

Dean reached up and ruffled Sam’s hair; it was a childish gesture, but Sam leaned into it with a grin. ‘Pssh, you don’t gotta thank me for stuff like that. I protect you. It’s what I do best.’

He was happy. Sam was so incredibly happy in this moment that he forgot about Lucifer, about the shower, about his wounded hands.

Dean hit the covers in an excited manner, and Sam was brought back to his surroundings. ‘Now, let’s get onto the important stuff— me and Mom have most of the place cleaned up. We found an awesome diner joint not far from here.’

Sam stretched his arms out over his head, grinning. ‘Oh, is that so?’

‘Apparently the salad is  _ fantastic. _ ’ Sam laughed, and Dean grinned in response as he rose from the bed. ‘Order in or go eat there?’

‘Salad you order in’s never as good. Lemme just get changed, and we can go.’ Sam moved past his brother at the door, the hallway flooring cold against his bare feet.

Dean leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. He watched Sam with endearment and pride. ‘Can’t look tardy for your adorin’ public!’

Sam shouted back into the hall as he turned a corner. ‘Damn straight.’

 

**Author's Note:**

> my (currently inactive, until the 16/6/17) tumblr: dandymot.tumblr.com


End file.
